


Who's Gonna Watch You Die?

by IsaacTheGreat69



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsaacTheGreat69/pseuds/IsaacTheGreat69
Summary: Alfred knew Arthur was sick, but he didn't know how sick.Inspired by What Sarah Said by Death Cab for Cutie





	Who's Gonna Watch You Die?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights/ownership for both Hetalia and What Sarah Said go to their creators

Arthur had been sick for a while, that much I knew. What I hadn’t known was what from, or low long. What I didn’t know, what he didn’t tell me, or anyone, was that he had Leukemia. Specifically, Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia.

He never told any of us how he’d secretly slipped off to the doctor’s one day, how he’d had to go back for the results, alone. How the doctor sat him down and told him the news. Said it was pretty freaking rare for someone of his age to get it. I’m sure he probably made some stupid joke about how he was always exceptionally rare. That sounds like something he would’ve done. 

He never let anyone see him slowly get worse; he always put on a brave face and combatted any doubt of his appearance with the same old wit and grumpyness. He always slipped off to the bathroom descretely while everyone was chatting to empty his stomach in sollitude. When the chemo had started to take his hair, he’d shaved it off, waving off any questions as to why he’d choose to go bald. 

If someone caught him throwing up, or if he was having one of his bad days, he’d shrug it off and tell us “I just have a bit of a bug, nothing to fuss over.” That was his favorite rebutal. “Nothing to fuss over.” If only we’d known. 

When he had his bonemarrow transplant, he told us he was visiting his brothers in the city for a bit; told us not to bother calling, they were all gonna be “smashed” the entire time. We didn’t question it.

I know I can be oblivious. Hell, I can be a complete idiot most of the time, but I should’ve noticed him getting weaker, paler, smaller. I didn’t. I let him reassure me with kisses and cuddling in front of the TV. The farther along he was, I realize now, the more he’d fall asleep just sitting there with me. I suppose we only see what we want to see. I didn’t see that he stopped wanting sex because he was too weak and his body hurt too much. I didn’t see that he was sleeping so much because he was just utterly exhausted, all the time. I didn’t see that he started wearing more than one sweater to hide how thin he was, how cold he was, the numerous bruises that’d form under the skin from a simple touch or brush against furniture. The only thing I saw was a beautiful man who was working himself too hard, who liked to keep warm, who loved me even though we no longer had sex. 

It wasn’t until one night, when I woke up to him crying, in so much pain he couldn’t bare it, that he told me what was happening. By that point, he’d been hiding it for almost a year and a half, and he’d gone through chemo and the transplant, and nothing was working, so he’d quit. He’d stopped sneaking off to the hospital and had resigned himself to dying. I listened to him tell me this, and more, as pained tears streamed down his face, his body shaking violently; from crying or the cold, I wasn’t sure, maybe both. 

It’d taken me a minute to absorb the information, to understand that  _ Arthur was dying _ , that he had been for almost two years now. I tried to reason with him, to get him to go back to treatment, but he’d continued to cry, telling me that he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it again. He said he’d been alone, he was always in pain, he couldn’t see the point, it was a lost cause. 

I tried to tell him that  _ I’d  _ be there, he wouldn’t be alone, we could beat this together, but he just whimpered my name, looking into my eyes with his beautiful green ones, which had shone even brighter through his tears, and I understood. This was it. He was done. There was no way he’d let himself be persuaded by me or anyone else, because he’d given up. 

He apologized again and again until he was gasping for breath, apologizing for lying to everyone, for not telling us sooner, for trying to fix this on his own, for waiting so long to tell us that he was  _ dying. _ I’d hugged him close, rubbing his back softly, and told him it was okay. Everything was okay. Because I needed it to be, and I think he did too. 

That morning, as we sat across from each other at the table - me with my coffee and Arthur with his signature tea - I finally took the time to look at him. I felt horrible noticing for the first time how his collarbones stuck out under his sweater, how thin his hands looked clutching his mug, bruises on his wrists or neck or shoulders, and the bags under his eyes. I had glanced up at the beanie that was always covering his shaved head, and I realized it wasn’t shaved; he probably hadn’t had to shave it for a long time now. 

He’d looked up at me and given me a sad smile, but for once I didn’t have anything to smile about. 

“How long do ya have?” My voice sounded like it was coming from miles away, and I felt like someone had poured ice water down my spine as Arthur responded quietly, “About two and a half months, but that’s best case scenario.” I just nodded, looking down into my coffee mug. 

Arthur told me, in the quietness of the morning. He explained what he’d been through the past year and a half; how he found out, how treatment went, hiding it all from us, how he felt, and how, as each week passed, he felt less and less sure he would make it. By the end, I was chewing on my lip to keep my face from pinching, and blinking the tears out of my eyes. I still couldn’t believe that this was it, that all I’d have left with the man I love was a measly two and a half months, if that. Arthur had already gone through his grieving process, having had all that time to himself to filter through the emotions, but my grieving process was just starting then. I had looked up at him, silently studying me, and wondered,  _ how the hell will I get by without you? _

I wanted to fight, I wanted to argue, to make him see my way, but just looking at him, I could tell that I would just hurt him. He’d already been through enough, so for once, I kept my big mouth shut. 

I’m sure if I told Arthur what I’d been thinking, he would have laughed at the irony that it took him dying to get me to “be considerate of others” and stop talking. 

The first couple weeks, I was like a baby giraffe, stumbling over myself, unsure, trying to make sure Arthur was happy while trying to figure out how to deal with this on my own terms. He was always patient, kind, calm, smiling and thanking me for whatever I did. I think he was just too tired to get mad. Or grateful that he didn’t have to do much alone anymore. Probably both. 

By the end of the first month, we’d fallen into a bit of peace, and on good days, it was almost like he wasn’t sick at all, if I could ignore his bones sticking out, the new bruises that appeared each day, and the way he was always shaking just a bit. I promised him we’d do whatever he wanted, so over the next couple weeks we’d been on the London Eye four times, our favorite pub twice, a couple different museums, and a park. If we ever had to go home early because Arthur wasn’t feeling well, he’d sulk the rest of the day, until I convinced him to cuddle with me in front of the TV, and he’d inevitably fall asleep. 

As the second month progressed, it was obvious Arthur was getting worse, but he refused to acknowledge it. It was as I was watching him stroll through Piccadilly Circus that I wondered if he’d really accepted his fate, or if he was putting it off, choosing to ignore it so he wouldn’t think about it, and wouldn’t be stuck grieving the inevitable during his last days. 

During our time together, I told him I loved him more times than I can count. I just wanted him to know, though I guess we wouldn’t be together if he hadn’t known, right? I guess in a way I was also making up for the time he’d been alone in all this. 

At the end of the second month, he seemed to have stagnated. I felt like a rubber band pulled taut, waiting for the inevitable moment when Arthur would suddenly get worse, and I’d lose him, and I’d break. 

That moment didn’t come for another month. It was amazing really, he’d lasted three weeks longer than his doctor’s “best case scenario” could’ve predicted. He’d pushed through his pain, his shivering, his sickness, and we’d spent every moment together, feeling as though it were only us in the entire world. Occasionally, one of our friends would stop by. By then, everyone had heard the news. They were just as mad as me that they’d been told so late, except unlike me, they didn’t exactly keep quiet about it. 

During their visits, some of our friends would simply smile and pretend as though nothing were wrong, and we’d all have a good time together before they left to get back to their own lives. Others would ask nonstop questions, either trying to come to terms, understand, or convince Arthur and I that there was another way. By this time, I had already come to terms with it, and I supported Arthur’s decision. He’d tried everything. All we had was now, and I didn’t want to waste it arguing over something that wasn’t important. 

Arthur spent his last month in a wheelchair. Sometimes, to make him smile and laugh again, I’d pick him up, sit in the chair, put him in my lap, and speed down the sidewalk, much to the surprise and annoyance of passerby. Had it been two years ago, Arthur would have scolded me for being so reckless and getting in other people’s way, but on these days, he simply wrapped his thin arms around my neck and laughed. Those were some of the best moments of my life. 

He used to complain when I’d carry him upstairs to our room, but now that he hadn’t the strength to walk, he simply would rest his head on my shoulder and let me carry him. It almost made me wish for the days where he would scold me. I missed the old Arthur, but I knew this new Arthur was still the same man I’d fallen in love with. Just quieter, softer, thinner, more... tired. 

The number of nights I woke up to find him gasping and crying next to me grew as the months progressed. It always hurt my heart to see him in so much pain, and on those nights I would hold him close, gently running my hand through his hair, or rubbing his back, until he quieted and fell back to sleep. I’d stay up for hours after that, sometimes not sleeping at all. I think Arthur started to notice the bags under my eyes, but neither of us mentioned it. 

Then that day came. I woke up, the sun streaming through the curtains like any spring day, and smiled. That smile disappeared though as I heard a sound from the bathroom, and got up to check. I had called Arthur’s name hesitantly, opening the door and freezing in place. 

Arthur was sitting in front of the toilet, shaking violently, vomit on his clothes, the floor, and the toilet, sobbing uncontrollably. His face was flushed with fever and I could hear him struggling to breathe through his crying. I stared at him for a few moments before I had managed to unfreeze myself and crouch beside him, talking to him calmly to get him to calm down, just breathe, it was okay. I managed to clean him up, before carrying him back to the bed quickly and wrapping the blankets around him, then tried to quickly clean the bathroom as well. I could hear Arthur on the bed, trying hard to get breath into his lungs, whimpering and gasping in pain. 

Once I’d finished cleaning the bathroom, I’d picked him up again, grabbed my keys and wallet, and rushed to the ICU. 

And I’m still here. Well, I’m in the waiting room. This room was a joke. The only room in the entire hospital that wasn’t white from floor to ceiling. I’ve been here for what seems like years, but really I think it’s only been a day. The rest of our friends had come after I told them what was happening, and I look around at all the worried faces. Some were sitting, some pacing the floor. Some sat in silence and sollitude while others hudled together. I looked on as Feliciano clung to Ludwig’s shirt, whimpering, his shoulders shaking as tears turned the German man’s shirt a dark blue. My gaze drifted to Lovino and Antonio, the former for once not swearing loudly as Antonio pulled him into his lap and nuzzled his shoulder. Gilbert leans against the wall beside the vending machines, drinking from a flask and refusing to acknowledge anyone, Francis silently staring at nothing at his side. Elizaveta, who’d been one of our friends to constantly question and argue with Arthur, now sat silently, staring at the cover of some old magazine on the table beside her, Roderich’s arm around her shoulder. Matthew sits next to me, his hand in mine, playing with a stuffed polar bear, for lack of anything else to do.

I look down at my shoes, thinking over the past three months, and in a moment of poignancy that would make Arthur laugh (he doesn’t believe I can have such moments, even though he’s told me I’m rather smart), that plans are just prayers to Father Time. Every plan I’d made with Arthur, both two years ago for our future, and a month, two months ago for our last moments together, was secretly just us asking someone, anyone, to give us more time. I thought of Arthur in his hospital bed, in the brief moment I’d been allowed to see him, and I have to take a moment to control my breaths. I’ve already taken too much today, I couldn’t lose him. Not today. Please, anyone. God. Father Time. The god damn tooth fairy.  _ Give us more time _ . I cover my face with my hands. Even though I’m feeling this way, even though it hurts, I know I’d go through it a thousand times more, just to have been with you again. A hand on my shoulder makes me look up into Francis’ face, and he smiles sympathetically at me. I used to not like him, simply for the fact that Arthur had dated him before me, but looking at that smile, at the pain and loss in his eyes, I feel I can trust him. He’s losing a lover too. 

I’m caught in a memory of Arthur and I, in that first month, after I had helped him back to bed when he’d woken up in the middle of the night and thrown up. We’d lied there in silence, in the dark, and I asked him, “Arthur, if it were me... If I were sick and dying... Would you wait with me till the end?” I still don’t know what caused me to ask that. Rather than give me platitudes, promising to stay by me always, or some other sappy shit, he simply replies, “Love is watching someone die.”

Those words ring in my head, as clear as if I were still lying beside him on that dark night. 

A nurse comes into the room, and everyone lifts there heads. Those who were sitting stand as though the nurse were the honorable judge come to give Arthur’s sentence. In a way, I guess she is. She tells us that if we wish to say goodbye, we should do so now, and I feel like the floor was ripped out from under my feet. I let the others go before me, everyone going in pairs. Some, like Feliciano, come back crying harder than before. Others, like Francis and Gilbert, simply walk back into the room in silence, and stare at nothing. 

Somehow I get my feet to move, and before I know it, I’m standing beside Arthur’s bed. Somehow, in that bed, he looks smaller and thinner. He has a few wires and tubes connecting him to machines and IVs, and for a moment the only sound in the room is the steady beeping of the heart monitor. I fall into the seat beside the bed and grab his hand, and he smiles weakly at me. 

“Hello, love.”

My voice chokes my throat, but I manage, “Hey, Art.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh through his nose. I can tell he’s weak, that he’s tired. “Do you remember...” he starts, “that night you asked, if the roles were reversed, if I’d stay till the end?” I simply nod, pursing my lips. “Do you remember what I said?” I nod, then after a moment take a breath, repeating the words that’ve been playing in my mind the entire time. 

“Love is watching someone die.”

“So who’s going to watch you die, Alfred?” My gaze shoots from our hands to his face. He’s still smiling sadly at me, his eyes wet with tears. “Who’s going to watch you die? I want you to move on, after I’m gone. I don’t want you to be alone, love.” I straighten up in shock, gripping his hand harder. 

“What? Art, how could you- I could never- I’ll never love anyone but you, you know that! Don’t ask me to-“

He raises his other hand and cups my cheek as a tear falls, brushing his thumb. “It’s alright, poppet. Please, don’t let me hold you back. Don’t let me keep you from happiness.”

“But I’m happy with you!” I can feel myself breaking, feel the tears that I’ve been holding back for three months finally stream down my face. “Please, Arthur, don’t leave me!” 

He sighs sadly, his hand stroking my cheek a few times before it falls back to the bed. 

“I’m sorry, Alfred. You know I must. I’m so.... So tired. It hurts.” His voice cracks, and my heart squeezes inside my chest as he starts to cry as well. “I don’t want to die.” He whimpers. “But it hurts. It hurts so fucking much, please-“

I hug him tightly, one hand stroking his hair. “I love you.” 

He sobs. “I love you too, dearest. My Alfred, I’ll always love you.”

After a moment, I release him, and he steadies himself, lying back on the bed. Before I can change my mind, I kiss his forehead and leave the room. I leave the waiting room. The hospital. I just get in my car and drive.

Arthur’s been-.... gone, for a few months now. I haven’t left the house once the whole time. I do work from home, if I feel like it, and Matthew and Francis come by sometimes with food. After they had to throw out the previous load of untouched groceries three times in a row, Feliciano started coming by at least once a day to make lunch or dinner. At first, I didn’t bother touching the food, then one day Feliciano looked at me worriedly an begged me to eat. “You’re starting to look like Arthur-“

“Don’t say his name.” I all but growled at him. 

He took a step back, obviously a little frightened. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but Arthur, and he’s gone. “But-“

“Get out.” I commanded. He stood there for a moment, just staring, so I yelled, “Get out!”

He ran out of there, and I went back to bed. 

Two days later, after no word from anyone, Lovino showed up. Now he makes my food. With him not as easily intimidated as his twin, I screamed at him until I was out of breath, and he just stood there, silent, until I was done, then crossed his arms and demanded I eat, until I grudgingly did. This went on every day for two weeks. No one mentions Arthur around me anymore, and as more time goes by, the longer Matthew and Francis try to hang around after dropping off the groceries. They’d try to get me to watch a movie with them, or go to the park, or play baseball. I decided to humor them and watch a movie, so they picked one of my favorites. The entire time, all I did was sit through it silently, uninterested, and I could tell they were worried. I didn’t care. I don’t care. 

The next time they come by, I’m playing guitar on the couch. It was one of the few things I still did on a semi-regular basis. Arthur always said he liked my music. 

Matthew smiles when he sees me, and I give a slight nod before going back to my guitar. Matthew heads into the kitchen to put the groceries away and probably to talk to Lovino, and Francis sits next to me on the couch, listening to me play. After a moment, he speaks up. 

“You should write him a song.”

I look at the Frenchman for a moment before glancing down at my guitar. Write Arthur a song? 

“Why?”

Francis shrugs. “It’s therapeutic, you enjoy it, and you love him. I don’t see why not.” I don’t reply to that; I just go back to playing, thinking it over in relative silence. 

A month and a half later, a week from the six month anniversary of Arthur’s death, I tell Francis and Matthew that I’m going to perform at Arthur’s and my old pub. I can tell they’re excited for me, and they promise to be there. I guess they told our other friends, because when the anniversary rolls around and I’m walking onto the stage, I can see everyone out there, all with their own drinks and smiles on their faces, excited to see what I’ll play. I sat at the piano bench, sighing slightly. Arthur had taught me to play shortly after we got together, almost ten years ago. I thought it’d be more fitting to play his song on the instrument he loved so much.

I swore under my breath as I got distracted and played the intro twice, but shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. I started singing.

_ “And it came to me then that every plan  _

_ Is a tiny prayer to Father Time _

_ As I stared at my shoes in the ICU  _

_ That reeked of piss and 409 _

_ And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself  _

_ That I'd already taken too much today _

_ As each descending peak on the LCD  _

_ Took you a little farther away from me _

__ Away from me”  
  
“Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines 

_ In a place where we only say goodbye _

_ It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend  _

_ On a faulty camera in our minds _

_ But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose  _

_ Than to have never lain beside at all _

_ And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground  _

__ As the TV entertained itself”  
  
“'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room

_ Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news _

_ And then the nurse comes round  _

_ And everyone will lift their heads _

_ But I'm thinking of what he said  _

__ That ‘Love is watching someone die’”  
  
“So who's going to watch you die?

_ So who’s going to watch you die? _

_ So who’s going to watch you die?” _

 

As everyone clapped, and some of my friends wiped tears from their eyes, I swear I could feel a delicate hand on my shoulder, and a whisper in my ear.

“Thank you, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Francis - France  
> Arthur - England  
> Alfred - America  
> Feliciano - N. Italy  
> Lovino - S. Italy  
> Antonio - Spain  
> Matthew - Canada  
> Gilbert - Prussia  
> Ludwig - Germany  
> Elizaveta - Hungary   
> Roderich - Austria


End file.
